Threats and crank communications to banks are usually handled by an in-house investigative department. General hate mail is most often from people who are denied loans or have had their homes foreclosed. Hate mail is as likely to come from a woman as from a man. According to the psychological profiles I read that morning, it was usually someone having work, financial, or domestic problems. Occasionally, there were serious threats because of a bank's labor practice, its affiliations with foreign countries such as South Africa, Iraq, Northern Ireland. Mail at the major banks was X-rayed in the mailroom, and there were frequent false alarms. Musical Christmas cards sometimes set off the machines.
The process was exhausting, but necessary. It was part of the job. I glanced over at Betsey Cavalierre around one. She was right there with the rest of us, seated at a plain metal desk. She was nearly hidden behind the stacks of paper.
"I'm going to run out again for a while," I told her. "There's a guy I want to check out. He's made some threats against Citibank. He lives nearby."
She put down her pen," I'll go with you. If you don't mind. Kyle says he trusts your hunches."
"Look where it got Kyle," I said and smiled.
"Exactly," Betsey said and winked. "Let's go."
I had read and reread Joseph Petrillo's file. It stood out from the others. Every week for the past two years, the chairman of Citibank in New York had received an angry, even vicious letter from Petrillo. He had worked in security for the bank from January of 1990 until two years ago. He'd been fired because of budget cuts that affected every department in the bank, not just his. Petrillo didn't accept the explanation, or anything else the bank tried to make him go away.
There was something about the tone of the letters that alarmed me. They were well written and intelligent, but the letters showed signs of paranoia, possibly even schizophrenia. Petrillo had been a captain in Vietnam before he worked for the bank. He'd seen combat. The police had been to see him about the crank mail, but no charges had been filed.
"This must be one of those famous feelings of yours," Betsey said as we rode to the suspect's house on Fifth Avenue.
"It's one of those famous bad feelings," I said. "The detective who interviewed him a few months ago had a bad feeling too. The bank refused to go any further with the complaint."
Unlike its namesake in New York, Fifth Avenue in DC was a low-rent area on the edge of gentrifying Capitol Hill. It had originally been mostly Italian-American, but was now racially mixed. Rusted, dated cars lined the street. A BMW sedan, fully loaded, stood out from the other vehicles. Probably a drug dealer.
"Same old, same old," Betsey said.
"You know the area?" I asked as we turned on to the street where Petrillo lived.
She nodded and her brown eyes narrowed. "A certain number of years ago, that number not to be disclosed at this time, I was born not far from here. Four blocks to be exact."
I glanced over at Betsey and saw a grim look on her face as she stared out the windshield. She had let me in on a little piece of her past: She'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Washington. She didn't look like it.
"We don't have to follow up on this hunch,” I told her. "I can check it out later. It's probably nothing, but Petrillo lives so close to the field office."
She shook her head, shrugged. "You read a lot of files today. This is the one that popped out for you. We should follow up on it. I'm fine being here."
We stopped in front of a corner store where local kids had probably been hanging out for the past few decades. The current group looked a little retro in their choice of loose-fitting jeans, dark T-shirts, slicked-back hair. They were all white.
We crossed the street and walked toward the end of the block. I pointed out a small yellow house. "That's Petrillo's."
"Let's go talk to the man," she said. "See if he's robbed any banks lately."
We climbed pockmarked concrete steps to a gray metal screen door. I knocked on the door frame and called out, "DC police. I'd like to talk to Joseph Petrillo."
I turned to Betsey, who was standing to my left, down one of the stone stairs. I'm not even sure what I was going to say to her.
Whatever it was I never got it out.
There was a tremendous gun blast probably a shotgun. Very loud, deafening, scarier than a bolt of lightning. It came from inside the house, not far from the front door.
Betsey screamed.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I dived headfirst off the porch, taking Betsey with me. We lay on the lawn, scrambling to get our guns, breathing hoarsely.
"Jesus Christ! Jesus!" she gasped. Neither of us had been hit, but we were scared shitless. I was also angry at myself for being careless at the door.
"Damn it! I wasn't expecting him to shoot at us."
"Last time I ever doubt your gut feelings," she whispered. "I'll call for back-up."
"Call Metro first,” I told her. "This is our city."
We crouched beside an untrimmed hedge and several out-of-control rose bushes. Both of us had our pistols ready. I held mine raised skyward along the side of my face. Was this the Mastermind in here? Had we found him?
Across the street, the teens in front of the deli were brazenly checking out the action, more specifically, where the gunshot had come from. They had wide-eyed expressions and were watching us as if we were characters in an episode of NYPD Blue or Law Order.
"Crazy fuckin' Joe," one of them shouted loudly, his hands cupped around his mouth.
"At least he's stopped shooting for the moment," Betsey whispered. "Crazy fucking Joe."
"Unfortunately, he still has his scatter-gun. He can shoot some more if he wants to."
I shifted around on the ground so I could see the front of the house a little better. There was no hole in the door. Nothing.
"Joseph Petrillo!" I shouted again.
No response came from inside the house.